


Silhouettes

by CuratioLethe



Series: The Long Game [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Violence, acts of terrorism, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:56:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1964568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuratioLethe/pseuds/CuratioLethe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hadn't anticipated ever seeing her again, which was why he had let his guard down that night. But every action has a consequence, and Sherlock will have to face his own, all while the threat of Moriarty hangs over his head. Sherlock Holmes will have to contend with the ghosts of his past before he can come to terms with a future he never wanted. -A sequel to The Long Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Thanks to the lovely Hoodoo!

Molly Hooper's life had always consisted of routine:

Everyday she woke up at 8 A.M, had tea with breakfast, fed her cat and headed to work by 10. On the weekdays she took the tube to work, while on the weekends, she'd catch a cab.  
Her shift at Barts lasted from 11:30 in the morning until 8 P.M., at which time she would catch either a cab or the tube home, depending on the day. When she arrived, her and Toby would have dinner before catching a few hours of telly with cup or two of tea—some nights substituted for a glass of wine and she was typically in bed by eleven each night.

  
Things had taken a turn in Molly Hooper's life over the past three weeks, however.  
Now eight weeks along, some mornings she felt fine enough to eat a small bowl of fruit and toast. Other mornings found her hunched over the toilet for hours, heaving up whatever was left from the night before.

  
The tube was now completely out of the question, at least until the morning sickness eased up. The lurching movements of the train had disagreed with her, resulting in an unfortunate incident in which a business man's expensive-looking suit became accessorized by Molly's breakfast. Her feeble apologies and stuttered explanations only just lessened the look of utter disgust on his face as he scribbled out his name and the phone number to his dry cleaners.  
Another change Molly was having to adapt to was barely managing to undress before collapsing into bed upon returning home from work. Some nights she simply fell asleep in her undergarments, too tired to bother with her pyjamas, and her lunch breaks were now used to catch a quick nap during her shift on the days that the fatigue was stronger than her appetite.

  
Luckily enough, her stomach didn't seem to be bothered with the grizzlier aspects of her job, (which she found odd, when things like the smell of peach or Tide laundry soap had become intolerable) but then again, her job had never really been something that affected her the way it did others.

  
Out of all of the temporary changes in her life, however, the hardest one had been trying to reconcile with the idea of how drastically, how permanently, her life was going change in just a few months. The queasiness would stop soon enough and the fatigue would eventually go away, but the idea of being a parent, something she would be for the rest of her life, was a hard concept to come to terms with. Usually when she began to try, she'd become overwhelmed and push the thought from her mind, while instead trying to focus on something else.

  
That “something else”, however, had not been the pamphlet currently shoved to the back of her nightstand drawer, given to her at her appointment along with the test results. The pamphlet that had given her a list of "alternative options" to consider.  
Molly wanted to believe what the nurses had told her, that it was given to each patient who found out they were expecting. However, she couldn't shake the feeling that it being given to her had something to do with the box marked "single" on her paperwork.

  
It was something she wasn't sure would have made a difference regardless of whether Sherlock had been sent away or not. Yet another thing she tried very, very hard not to think about.  
Right now, however, it was easy to forget about her current predicament; about making a decision, about the fact that she might have been a single parent regardless of the circumstances surrounding the conception. It was another thing that was on the growing list that she wouldn't allow herself to think about.  
Because she had just turned from the body she had been dissecting—Matilda, early 70's, stroke— and she wasn't sure if it was the fear that made her suddenly dizzy, or the fact that she had stopped breathing.

  
Right then all she could focus on was the fact that a ghost has just stepped into the room and twisted the lock on the door into place before turning towards her, slipping his hands into the pockets of his immaculately tailored suit.

  
The smile on his face made it all the worse.

"Did you miss me, Molly? Because oh, how I've missed you."


	2. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of the feedback on the prologue1  
> Beta:Hoodoo

Sherlock Holmes hated being confined.

It wasn't something he had factored in when he had pulled the trigger. Murder meant prison, typically. At least, it certainly meant prison if it occurred in front of a dozen or so witnesses. Had he been alone and unobserved, he would have come up with a much more creative, much less conspicuous method of ending the man he despised like no one he ever had before.

As it were, even if he had considered the consequences, he knew it wouldn't have affected his decision. He now had people to protect. His vow to uphold and nothing would keep him from doing so. Certainly not Charles Augustus Magnusson!

That didn't ease his current agitation however.

The best that Mycroft could do was to have his containment stationed at Baker Street, with 24 hour surveillance. This consisted of two armed guards at the front door, both downstairs and up, another who was to guard Sherlock at all times, as well as around-the-clock video surveillance and a small plastic ankle bracelet that would trigger an alarm so that if he so much as breathed the air outside of his apartment, it would result the arrival of an entire fleet of British guardsmen to Baker street within 90 seconds.

He was allowed no outside contact with anyone save Mycroft; no means of communication and with only the television to remain informed of outside events; none of which that had involved Moriarty so far.

The British Government had pulled Sherlock out of exile because the consulting criminal had become a threat again—or in the very least, his image appearing on every television or computer screen across the country was being treated as such—but so far there had been nothing further to go on. The broadcast had been sent over a wireless network that bounced from several ghost servers and had been cut before it could be traced back to its original source.

However, until something solid surfaced for them to go on, a lead for them to follow, Sherlock was still considered too dangerous to be allowed free roam among the citizens of London and was therefore required to remain in the custody of British Government.

It was absurd. After all, what good was he, tucked away while whoever had sent the broadcast worked at whatever plot they had underway. But not even Mycroft's influence could convince those who stood over him in authority that Sherlock would be put to better use out in the field.

Honestly, he would never understand how "normal people" had survived the evolutionary process.

And so here he sat. Most days were spent inside of his mind palace. Not only did this help to alleviate some of the utterly mind-numbing boredom and even the beginning stages of claustrophobia, but it also gave him the time to sort through everything he had stored away about the consulting criminal, time and again, until the details were so well memorized he wouldn't have needed his mind palace for them.

Nothing made for an acceptable answer however.

No matter how many times he sought and reasoned and deduced, Sherlock simply could not rationalize the concept of Jim Moriarty being alive. Sherlock based the very fabric of the way he functioned on facts and the facts were indisputable, facts he had witnessed with his own eyes. There had been no smoke and mirrors, as his own faked suicide had relied on; Moriarty had placed the barrel of a gun between his lips and pulled the trigger.

The clarity with which Sherlock recalled the spray of blood that exploded from the back of his head could not have been faked or chalked up to illusion.

Jim Moriarty was dead.

Which meant the only possibility at this point was that someone was using his image to send a message.

But why? What had the person been hoping to accomplish? He couldn't say for sure, but he had a feeling it was for more than just attention.

Sherlock had cycled through every possibility he could logically associate with Moriarty and yet he drew complete blanks at every avenue he ventured down. Every possibility was dismissed on technicalities and the spirals he spun in only ended him up right back where he had started, adding to his frustration of being unable to /act/.

There had to be a missing factor, something he either didn't know about or hadn't thought to account for. Much in the same way that Moriarty hadn't thought to account for Molly.

Ah... and then there was Molly. The thought of which he sought after constant distraction from.

His biggest distraction so far had been smoking. It was one thing that Mycroft simply couldn't bring himself to deny his brother in the situation. Oh, how he meandered on about sentiment.

Pfft.

Sherlock snorted even as he drew from the cigarette he was currently indulging in.

Because he had little to amuse himself with these days, he had begun to take enjoyment from the smallest things, with one of those being that his smoking seemed to annoy his personal guard. Several times of Sherlock's chain-smoking binges had resulted in a glare his way and an opened window.

He knew the man was simply doing his job by hovering the way that he was, however that didn't loosen Sherlock's utter irritation at the situation. Thus the poor guardsman became the only recipient within range of many of Sherlock's methods of stress relief including, but not limited to, the meticulous ways in which he would make deductions about the man on a daily basis any time there was new material to do so with.

In fact, Sherlock was certain the man hated being here with Sherlock /almost/ as much as Sherlock hated being here at all.

"Seriously, that's your seventh cigarette in the past /forty/ minutes. Are you trying to suffocate us both?"

The quiet flick of Sherlock's lighter seem to have been the proverbial straw; the guard had yet to verbally complain, but it wouldn't have taken Sherlock's prowess to deduce his displeasure. In fact, Sherlock was a bit surprised that he had held out this long to speak up.

Be that as it was, Sherlock couldn't deny the almost sadistic streak of amusement that ripped through him at finally having evoked a reaction from the man who had remained annoyingly tight lipped thus far.

"Why so tense, Nigel? Surely even you must agree that a trip to the hospital would be most welcome about now. Even the morgue-"

The words seemed to die on his lips even as they left them, but Nigel was either too annoyed to comment on it, or hadn't caught it in the first place; either way, he simply rolled his eyes and made his move over to open the window that was quickly becoming frequent to the point of ritualistic. Sherlock brought the cigarette back between his lips, drawing deeply.

"Even if you don't care about being able to breathe in the next twenty years, I do. And a little common courtesy never hurt anyone. Some of us actually /want/ to live a long, healthy life."

"Not with that amount of red meat in your diet."

It had slipped out without his consent, as if his brain suddenly switched into autopilot in an effort to scramble back together after the slip that could only possibly bring one thing to mind for Sherlock anymore.

Molly.

Molly, whom Sherlock rarely gave himself the luxury of thinking about. Molly, whom he had locked away in a room of her own in a corner of his mind palace with all of the details and memories pertaining to her; allowing himself to visit only when he became too frustrated with the mantra on Moriarty and the same four walls became too much to stare at any longer.

Molly, who counted.

Molly, who mattered.

Molly, who confused him,

Who made him question himself.

Molly, whom he had slept with.

Those memories in particular sat in a box of their own, tucked away in the room he rarely visited. A box of memories that he hadn't touched since he had put them there, seated in a car that waited outside of her flat to drive him to the airport, on the morning he had thought would be the last he would ever see of her.

A box he had no intention of ever opening.

Because if he opened it, he would have to question the things he had put there.

Sherlock was not a man who scared easily, but he could admit to himself that the idea frightened him.

Instead he allowed himself to remember only the little things, when he allowed them at all. The way she had smiled as she teased him the night he had sought her help for the stag night, the sting of her hand and the way he had never been as proud of her as he was once the shock of her blows had worn off.

These were small things that didn't require him to question them; things he had long since accepted. He didn't have to label and categorize or deduce and explain them; they were just facts.

Like the kisses he had placed on her cheek, one in apology, the other in resignation.

The things in the box would demand to be contended with. But the facts, without question, simply /were/.

However, even if the little things were simple, and even if they didn't demand to be contended with, there was something inside of Sherlock that became... uncomfortable if he allowed himself to dwell for too long. It was the reason why his trips to that room were seldom at best.

How desperately he needed out of this apartment.

He hadn't even been allowed to have John and Mary visit, instead receiving word of them via Mycroft who came once a week.

Which was why the man in question walking through the door at that moment was little more than a surprise. However, it wasn't his unexpected presence that alerted Sherlock to the fact that something was amiss. No, it was the fact that Mycroft didn't even spare Sherlock a glance as he headed straight to the table in which Sherlock kept the remote for the television and switched it on.

It was the news, despite the time of day being wrong for it; a young female reporter was outside, a stricken look on her face as she motioned to the building behind her. The caption beneath her was stamped with BREAKING NEWS and beneath it, Moriarty Strikes.

Sherlock sat up straighter in his chair, his focus raptly on the television. The camera suddenly panned upwards, to show the clock face of Big Ben and the figure of a person that seemed to be hanging from the minute hand which was pointed to the three. But it wasn't until the camera zoomed in that Sherlock /reacted/, suddenly on his feet without remembering how he had gotten to them. Because the camera was now focused on the terrified expression of one Molly Hooper and her hands which were stretched above her head were not just grasping the minute hand, but were tied to them.

It took him seconds to deduce with sickening clarity that the way in which the knot of the rope holding her up would give the moment it was pulled flush against the flat side of the arrow. Which meant the moment the clock hand struck six, Molly would fall.

"Mycroft!"

"I received a text five minutes ago that explosives have been hidden inside of building and that if anyone but you steps within ten feet, they'll be detonated. The car is waiting downstairs."

\-------------------

It had taken them half the time it normally would have to reach the bell tower, with Mycroft having had the insight to have the traffic for the route they needed to take cleared.

When they arrived, a sizable crowd had gathered, blocked off by police who had secured at least a thirty mile radius.

If Sherlock wasn't the man that he was, he wouldn't have noticed the way that people pointed, the stricken looks and in some cases, even tears. He wouldn't have noticed the fact that John was at the forefront of one of the masses, arguing with an officer while gesturing to the building, nor the fact that the building was plastered with posters of a still taken from the video of Moriarty's face.

Whoever had done this wanted it to be known that the two events were interlinked.

If Sherlock was any other man, he wouldn't have realized in the moments as he pushed past men who tried to restrain him before they fell away—at Mycroft's cue no doubt—that this was it: the trigger that would begin to set things into motion.

It had taken six minutes to get from Baker Street to Westminister Abbey. The clock face was 160 feet from the ground. Any other man wouldn't have been able to note the fact that it took him three minutes and thirty seconds to cover the stairs that led him to higher floors.

Molly had been tied to the clock facing the west and when Sherlock finally reached the corridor that it resided in, he could see clearly the sun in the distance. It blazed across the expansive of sky in a cascade of reds, orange and pink that a normal man would consider beautiful.

Now eight and a half minutes since he had first seen the clock back on Baker Street left her precariously hanging between four and five. Her side was pressed against the glass and her white lab coat was visible, which meant that she must have been taken from Barts during her shift.

Something about the idea instilled a sense of violation in Sherlock.

His eyes scanned the expanse of wall, but there was no hatch or access to the outside, which meant he would have to go further up. But as he turned to ascend the next set of stairs, something caught his attention. Sitting on the bottom step was a crow bar and a small folded note.

Normally, Sherlock would have completely disregarded the items, had it not been for the pink bow and his name in carefully crafted penmanship. He quickly snatched up both items, unfolded the paper and scanned the letter.

Sherlock,

You cheated.

There are always rules and you broke them.

Now, something else must be broken.

The window or little Molly's body all over the pavement.

Your choice.

-M

It couldn't possibly be that simple. There had to something more, because it was hardly a decision that needed deciding.

The paper fluttered to the floor and he turned back to the window, stepping onto the ledge in which the clock was instilled. His eyes darted from where Molly hung to each panel of glass between them, before he raised the bar and swung it into the panel that was just behind the five. The glass cracked, but did not break and he could hear Molly's frightened squeak on the other side. He swung again, and again, each blow causing a spiderweb of splinters to crawl its way up until finally the panel was more cracks than solid surface.

"Molly, can you hear me?"

"Y-Yes!"

"Molly, I need you to listen to me! When the glass breaks, it's going to fly in every direction. I need you to try and bury your face into your arm and close your eyes. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes!"

"On the count of three! One, two—!'

He aimed, closed his own eyes and shoved the curved end of the crow bar into the weakest point of the glass. Just as he had said, the entire panel shattered with a deafening crash and glass sprayed out into the air, before dropping to the ground. Each piece caught the sunlight and from the view below, gave the illusion of diamonds sparkling as they fell.

A few small shards caught his cheek as he ran the bar along the now empty metal frame that had ensure none of the pieces remained before he leaned out. Molly was a staring at him, eyes wide and lips parted in an expression he had seen often from others, but usually reveled in. There was nothing to enjoy about this moment, however. Until Molly had both feet safely planted on the ground below, the tension that had coiled in his chest would not lessen. And maybe not even then.

Either way, Sherlock did not foresee being able to sleep tonight.

"Molly, listen to me. Do everything as I say, exactly as I say. I need to untie the rope, otherwise I can't pull you in. Hold on as tight as you can and keep your eyes fixed on me, no matter what, do /not/ look away from me. Do you understand?"

She nodded, and the stunned expression quickly melted into the look of fear she had been wearing when he first saw her on the telly.

He quickly studied where her hands were tied, how her grip on the wrought iron had visibly tightened and the small ledge on the other side of the glass that would be wide enough for his foot alone, if he twisted it just right. But even as he placed his foot there and got his bearings, the knowledge of losing his balance even a little would result in him going over caused a sense of vertigo, he knew she was still too far away for him to get a proper grip on.

"I'm going to untie the rope now, otherwise you won't be able to move. When I do, I need you to try and move up the bar."

"I can't!"

"You can. You have to!"

"I can't move!"

"I need you to /try/. Just a little bit."

"S-Sherlock…"

"Molly, if you've ever trusted me, trust me now. I would never let you fall. Do you understand? Never."

Their eyes held as they stared at one another and after a moment, Molly nodded. Sherlock returned the gesture, before he leaned forward, his body anchored by his left hand and leg against the frame and he was just able to reach the knot of rope at her wrist. With the single sharp tug, the rope unraveled and fell away and he slid his arm around her waist, the angle made awkward from the way he had to stretch.

"I've got you Molly, now move!"

He could feel the shuddering breath she took, the way her body tightened as she let go with one hand. The action jolted her and she cried out, quickly grabbing for the bar further up. Sherlock in turn tightened his own hold.

"Good, now the other."

It was like a twisted rendition of monkey bars. Each time her hand left the hand of the clock, she would inhale sharply, her body reacting to the stress of the situation. Sherlock couldn't afford to allow his own body's response to reign. He would surely drop her if he didn't focus.

It took six turns, three times for each hand to let go only to wildly grasp for the bar again, before Sherlock felt he had a chance of pulling her in without them both going over and he slid his other hand around her, forcing his body rigid against his only hold on the building.

"I'm going to pull you over now. When I say to, I need you to let go, all right? Let go … now!'

The moment her hands disconnected from the metal, there was a brief moment that sank through Sherlock with sickening clarity. It was a moment that he suddenly felt weightless, felt the surface underneath him disappear and in that moment, he was sure they had lost balance in the wrong direction.

In that moment, her name alone resounded in his mind as if shouted from the bottom of a canyon, the two syllables ricocheting off of every solid surface until it echoed upward into the sky like a mushroom cloud.

The alarmingly loud way that his body hit the floor behind him reached him before the pain of the collision did. But once it did, Sherlock couldn't recall a time when he had welcomed pain more.

She landed on top of him and the force knocked the breath from his lungs, which left him immediately disoriented. Or, in the very least, that would be the excuse he later provided himself for the way his arms instantly snaked around her and clasped her body to his.

The sudden uproar of a distant cheer that floated up from below mingled with the sound of their harsh breathing and even Sherlock couldn't have begrudged them the desire to celebrate.

Molly's body was shaking against his and he gently cradled the back of her head before rolling her onto her side. Her face was pressed into his chest and when he lifted himself, he found that her eyes were squeezed tight, her fist which were now clutching the fabric of his shirt did so just as tightly.

Sherlock sat up, pulling her with him and still she kept her eyes shut, allowing him to move her as he wished. His eyes quickly swept over her body, trying to assess her physical condition. Her skin was pale, unnaturally so and her bottom lip was beginning to bruise, showing signs of having been bitten roughly.

Her wrists were visible from where the sleeves of her lab coat had slipped down her forearm, revealing angry red welts that had already begun to form. Gently, he pulled her hands away from his shirt and her grip gave away easily, allowing them to be lifted them so that Sherlock could give them a once over, assessing the damage before seeing similar gashes across the palms of her hands.

Sherlock rested her hands in her lap before he grasped her chin and gently commanded her head upwards.

"Molly, open your eyes."

Molly obeyed, her lashes fluttering and her eyes found his, the brown irises which were usually so astute in clarity of understanding were now glossed over. She had responded, which meant that she hadn't gone into shock and right now, the only thing he had time to care about was her physical state. He couldn't begin to fathom what she was feeling. Even if emotions hadn't always been a foreign concept, Molly had proven time and again that she did not react like other people, effectively surprising him on more than one occasion.

"We need to leave, the building—"

But then she whispered his name, and suddenly her arms were around his neck, her body pressed into his. An action that caught him off guard, to say the least. Present circumstances aside, Molly had never been the one to initiate physical contact between them.

Despite the fact that they needed to leave and that he didn't know what to say, he relented and hesitantly slipped an arm around her back to return the gesture. He could allow for this, if only for a moment. She /had/ nearly just plunged to her death, after all. Even he could comprehend the concept of needing to be comforted after experience like that.

"I th-thought you were gone..." Molly murmured into his shoulder and her grip was clenched into the fabric of his shirt. Her body trembled against his own and the way that it did so caused /the box/ to rattle, triggered by the feel of her in his arms. Sherlock quickly pulled back, because now was definitely not the time. Neither of them were currently hanging on for dear life, but that didn't mean they were safe.

"I'll explain later, but for now we need to leave."

She nodded, her posture changing and her eyes cleared into a hardened sort of understanding. It was something Sherlock had always appreciated about Molly; when something needed to be accomplished, she knew how to prioritize.

He got to his feet, helping her to stand and just as he turned towards the door, a thundering /boom/ sounded from somewhere in the distance. Sherlock's head whipped to the side, and from the opening that he had pulled Molly through, he could see flames in the distance. A second later, another /boom/ resounded before a building next to the first mass of smoke and fire erupted into the same. Screams arose from below and Sherlock watched, shell shocked, as three more buildings suffered the same fate.

Large buildings, more than likely businesses of some kind. All of which were probably occupied.

Five buildings.

Five.

The same number next to the panel of glass he had chosen to break.

Something had to break, because he had broken the rules.

It didn't matter that that something had turned out to be somethings.

Lives and families.

It didn't matter that he hadn't been given the details of his ultimatium.

The game was still on, but Sherlock had felt like he had already lost.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this took an extremely long time. So sorry!
> 
> Beta: Many thanks to the lovely penelope1730 for agreeing to take over as beta! She’s done a fantastic job at helping me with not only this chapter, but also with the story overall. She’s wonderful, simply wonderful, and you should all go follow her on the Tumblr!

"Ms. Hooper, I know this is difficult but I need you to try and answer a few questions for me. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Good, I’ll try to make this as quick as I can so that you can get some rest. Can you tell me what happened?"

"I..I was doing my shift at Barts…erm, that’s Saint Bartholomew… I was working in the morgue when he came in…"

"It’s alright. Take your time."

"He came…he cane into the room and locked the door. He told me that he had missed me. I tried to leave, but he grabbed me and …and covered my mouth with something. That’s the last thing… I remember before I woke up."

"You told the officer that your attacker was James Moriarty. Are you sure it was him?"

"Yes."

"You are, in fact, aware that James Moriarty committed suicide on the rooftop of St. Barts, three years ago? Confirmed deceased by DNA analysis."  
"Yes."

"And you’re absolutely certain that James Moriarty was the man that abducted you?"

"Without a doubt."

~*~*~*~

 

After they witnessed the explosions and hurriedly left the building, Sherlock had kept a hand at her waist for her unsteady gait and a paramedic had met them at the door, escorting Molly away to be taken to a hospital.

The only thing that Molly remembered with clarity between the time that she had been pulled inside the building and arriving at the hospital was that Sherlock had held her hand in the ambulance.

Well, that and the panic attack that had ensued when he had been forced to leave the room because of the exam that the doctors needed to perform to assess any injuries she might have sustained.

Minus the bruising ligature marks around her wrist, and mild oxygen deprivation, the worst Molly had suffered was psychological. However, because of the panic attack, she had been admitted for overnight observation.

Even if she had wanted to protest, she wouldn’t have. An officer stood guard over her during the night and a nurse had been in every hour to monitor her vitals. Molly suspected that their presence was more of a contributing factor to the little sleep she was able to manage that night than the sedative had been.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tom’s flat was bigger than Molly’s by a study and a balcony. Although it was seldom, one of her favorite things about staying over at his place had been waking up to watch the sunrise together – sometimes clad only in his bed sheets.He would stand with his arms wrapped around her from behind and the only conversation that took place as the sun climbed higher in the sky was between the birds.

"Don’t be silly, its bad enough I’m putting you out by staying here, I’m not going to make you sleep on the couch."   
  
"You aren’t making me do anything and you aren’t putting me out. Take the bed, Molly."  
  
"Tom."  
  
"Molly, you’ve been through hell. The least I can do is let you recover in a decent bed."  
  
She sighed, because it didn’t matter how much she argued with him, she knew he wouldn’t cave. If Molly could say two things about Tom, it was this: He was a gentleman if nothing else and he was also stubborn as hell.

"Well, its only for a few days, like I promised. Thanks again, for letting me stay."

"Of course. And I told you that you could stay here as long as you needed."

The silence that fell between them wasn’t terribly uncomfortable, but it held its share of awkwardness.

It had been nearly two months since they had seen one another, having both attended a Christmas party hosted by a shared acquaintance _._ But, even before then, Molly and Tom had agreed they were better off as friends – maintaining the sentiment by occasionally going to the pub with friends or meeting up for lunch.

The days that followed her abduction, Molly jumped at every sudden movement or noise. Even now, four days later, she still had to set her mug down on the coffee table between sips to avoid dropping it.

The shadows on her bedroom wall would reshape themselves into the twisted grin of a mad man and the nights she was able to fall asleep were often cut short as she was jolted awake with a wordless cry from nightmares of meeting pavement.

After three nights, Molly knew she needed to find another place to stay, if only for a few days. Everywhere she had looked, she was only reminded of the times that Jim had been there and as reluctant as she was to admit it, she no longer felt safe in her own home. In fact, she no longer felt safe being alone period.

Despite their broken engagement, Molly was grateful she and Tom had moved forward on good terms. She hadn’t necessarily meant to ask him, but with the exhaustion and choking fear that had refused to relent no matter how hard she tried, the question had practically jumped from her lips.

It made sense, in a strange sort of way, at least it made sense to her. If there was one thing Molly had always associated with Tom, it had been a stabilizing sense of safety. Ironically, that had been one of the qualities that Molly had realized she couldn’t have gone through with marrying him because of, but as a friend, right now, it was exactly what she needed.

There was nothing she could relate Tom to Moriarty, no memories associated between the two, and it was that fact alone that had been cause for her hesitation in contacting Sherlock since she had last seen him at the hospital.

Despite the gnawing need for answers - / _Where had he been? Why hadn’t he contacted her in some way?/_ \- or wanting to see him again with a desire that ran bone deep like an ache, every time she had picked up her phone to text him, she simply couldn’t bring herself to do so.

It wasn’t just that when she thought of him, Jim’s face flashed before her eyes, but also the dizzying anxiety that came with the conversation she knew she was going to have to have with him. That, coupled with the fact that since the hospital, Molly had felt as if someone had reached inside of her and rearranged her anatomy, as if the floor beneath her feet would shift out from underneath her at any moment; as if she were constantly walking through one of those rooms you found at a carnival in which you had to walk across the bridge while the room around you rotated. Everything together, all of it, had been overwhelming, disconcerting at best and it only served to make her morning sickness worst.

She wasn’t sure if she was more relieved or hurt that he hadn’t contacted her yet instead.

"Do you want more tea?"  
"No, I’m okay, thanks."

Tom nodded and stood to gather the tea service before taking them into the kitchen. Molly took the opportunity to look around; Neither of them had gotten around to discussing whose flat would eventually become home to the other, and Molly tried for a moment to imagine how things would have been different. Tried to imagine waking up here every morning and coming home here every night.

Tried to imagine that her pregnancy would be something she was celebrating right now with the father, instead of anxiously trying to figure out a way to tell him. Something she hadn’t thought she’d ever get the opportunity to do.

But as much as she tried, Molly simply couldn’t see it. Even as her mind conjured up illusions, they were quickly crushed by reality. Even Toby had yet to surface from his cat carrier, despite having been here for hours already, and she wondered if the tabby felt the way she did- that no matter the amount of time nor the reason, this could never be /home/.

Something caught her attention as her eyes swept over the bookcase Tom had in his sitting room and she stood up, moving closer. It was a picture from their third date, still in the frame she had purchased as a gift for him. They had gone to an amusement park and had both just come from a ride - Molly’s hair was a mess of tangles, but Tom had insisted they get it taken and so she had agreed.

It had been a good date, all in all.

"What’s that?"

Molly jumped and nearly dropped the frame, only just managing to catch it in a fumble.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you," he murmured as he joined her where she stood and took the frame she held out to him.

  
"Don’t be silly, you shouldn’t have to tiptoe around me."

Tom didn’t respond at first, instead studying the image before he spoke. “I had forgotten about this. Do you remember Zippo?”

"Oh, yes. Poor Zippo." She smiled for what felt like the first time in days at the memory of the ridiculous stuffed monkey with the whimsical hat and the tiny bouquet of flowers attached to its hand that Tom had won in a ring toss and given to her. It had been adorable, despite being a bit childish, but she had come home to find the toy in shreds of fabric and stuffing one evening.

"Poor Zippo indeed."

"I’d suspect Toby had a good deal of fun dismembering him." She mused as he handed her the photo back and she returned it to its shelf.

"Of course, he learned from the best after all," Tom said as he leaned a shoulder against the book case and tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

"You make what I do sound so…diabolical."

"It isn’t what you do, it’s how you do it."

Molly rolled her eyes at his teasing grin. “You’re just jealous that you haven’t got the stomach for it..”

"Hmm… maybe. The fact that you see it that way only shows what a morally deranged person you are."

"Oi!" She laughed as she gave him a playful swat and he held up his hands in mock surrender.

"That along with the fact that Toby cared about as much for me as he did Zippo, and knowing the damage you can do with a fork actually makes me a bit relieved that it didn’t work out between us."

Tom was still smiling as he had said it, which was enough to show Molly that he had been joking. They had discussed it before, naturally, so it wasn’t new territory. Even still, the comment stung and the smile fell from Molly’s lips. She quickly recollected herself, clearing her throat as she turned to return to the couch without a word.

"Oh, Molls. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that," he followed her, taking the place beside her on the couch.

"It’s fine," she murmured as she grabbed her purse from the floor beside her and quickly began rummaging through it in search of something to draw the attention away from the profoundly uncomfortable subject. It shouldn’t have bothered her; after all, she had been the one to end it between them and the fact that she was even here was enough of a testament to the fact that things were okay between them. But even still, an overwhelming sense of shame and embarrassment welled up inside of her and she could feel tears burning just behind her eye lids.

Molly struggled to rationalize the sudden onslaught of emotions, and as she did, they morphed into something entirely different, something she realized wasn’t even centered around her failed relationship.

"Molly?" Tom’s voice was gentle. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. "

"It’s fine," she repeated as she found her phone and pulled it out, because what better way to drown yourself out of situation than the internet? But before she could push the button to wake it from sleep, Tom hand covered her own. "It’s not…tell me what’s wrong."

Her shoulders twitched in a shrug, her hands stilling in his larger ones. Tom was silent for a moment, before it was his turn to clear his throat.

"You don’t…You aren’t having second thoughts about breaking off the engagement, are you?"

She shook her head, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"Then, tell me…"

In the aftermath of nearly dying, in the light of Sherlock’s return, amidst the confusion and the fear of that seemed to be a constant haunting companion of every waking moment the past three days, and in consideration of the fact Molly hadn’t spoken a word of her current predicament to anyone, the coil in which she had kept her emotions since the morning Sherlock had slipped out of her bedroom like a shadow, nothing left in the wake of his departure but the smell of him left to linger on her sheets had reached it maximum capacity for tension and she realized she needed to tell somebody…if she didn’t, she would snap.

Even as she whispered them, the two words fell from her lips as if weighed with lead and they hit the air like the explosions that had taken out five buildings as she watched in horror.

"I’m pregnant."

Tom didn’t respond immediately and Molly could only stare at his hand around hers, trying to imagine what expression he would be wearing at the news.

And then his arms were around her, tugging her body into the circle of his arms.

"It’s his, isn’t it?"

Stunned at his action, she could only nod and he held her tighter. Molly looked at him then, and in that moment, she had never been more grateful for Tom’s presence in her life.

"And…?" He prompted her quietly.

"And …I have no idea what to do."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sherlock Holmes

221B Baker St.

London NW1 6XE, United Kingdom

3/3/14

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I’m writing a personal missive to inform you that due to a recent error in filing, certain documents pertaining to the testimonies of those in attendance of the residence of the now deceased Charles A. Magnussen on the date of the 25th of December, 2013 have gone missing. I do not feel that I need to express the importance of such documents in the case of the alleged crime committed by yourself on that date. As it stands, we no longer have concrete ground in which to keep you detained to your residence in government custody. Furthermore, until the aforementioned documents can be recovered and reviewed, it has been agreed upon by the members of Parliament and myself that a probation has been granted to your person for an unspecified length of time. Might I suggest you use your newly granted freedom in benefit of recent developments.

Sincerely,

Lady Smallwood

Palace of Westminster

Westminster, London SW1A 0AA, United Kingdom

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Before we begin, I need to address that the only details that we can release at the present time are the number of victims who died in the explosions. All other information will be made available to the public as soon as we’re able to do so. I’ll take questions now.”

A young woman who appeared to be in her late twenties stood, dressed in attire that was wholly suited for her position as a reporter. She held a recorder forward in efforts to catch the response to her question and pressed play before she spoke. “Can you confirm the speculation that the events of what happened at Big Ben and the explosions are connected?”

“Investigations are still underway and we’ve got our best on the case, however until further evidence surfaces, we have to assume that they are in fact related. The timing and location of their occurrences are too close to rule it out. Next question.”

An older man with thinning hair stood, mimicking the first journalists actions with a recorder of his own. “People every where are panicking; is there reason to believe that another attack might be on its way? And if so, what can we do to avoid being a target?”

“The best thing for anyone right now is to try and remain calm. What happened four days ago was tragic and we also understand that people are frightened right now; however we can’t predict if or when another attack will occur. Right now, our country is grieving over lives lost and Scotland Yard is doing everything we possibly can to try and find the person responsible. As far as we can tell, the buildings that were targeted were chosen at random.”

Another woman stood; she wore black framed glasses and was rail thin with ginger hair pulled back and held in place with a pencil. “The woman who was tied to the clock face was Molly Hooper. Sources indicate that she and Sherlock Holmes have been friends for years now. Was her association with him the cause of her being targeted?”

By this point, the head of Scotland yard had begun to sweat. He had been informed prior to the press conference that the topic of Sherlock Holmes or Molly Hooper were to be dissuaded from. Suddenly the pinpoint gaze of one Mycroft Holmes could be felt on the back of his neck as if the mans stare was burning through his skin.

“As I stated previously, investigations are still under way. However, we believe each target was chosen at random. That’s enough questions for now, Thank you.”

~*~*~*~*~*

“It can’t possibly be him.”

“Evidence would speak otherwise.”

“Mycroft, I watched him blow his own brains out. It simply isn’t possible.”

“And he was also confirmed dead. I saw the body myself. That doesn’t change the fact that the man in these photographs is undeniably him.”

The photos were stills taken from the CV on the street in which Barts was located, each image taken from a different angle. Sherlock stared at them for only a moment, observing the features he had last seen only as the mouth was stretched wide and gun slipped inside, as the body of which had fallen backwards to meet concrete, lifeless.

“It’s impossible.” He murmured as he closed the manila folder containing the pictures and dropped them back onto Mycroft’s desk unceremoniously, turning to retrieve the cup of tea that had been prepared for him. He took a sip as the sound of Mycroft’s chair squeaked behind him, indicating that the older Holmes brother had stood. Sherlock kept his back to the man, staring down into the milky liquid in his cup as if it contained the answers he sought.

“Nothing’s impossible.” Mycroft’s tone would be considered condescending to anyone who hadn’t spent their entire life learning the way in which he operated.

“Is that a tone of pity I detect, dearest brother? I’d have thought one such as yourself would be above such sentimental idiocies. “

“Hardly, dearest brother. For what reason would I bestow pity on you? After all, you were certain you had been successful in completely dismantling Moriarty’s network, a task that only took you two years to undertake. A task that was, it appears, a wasted effort. Certainly even the most mundane individual would have made the same mistake.”

“I’d hardly call it wasted. Whoever is behind all of this is someone new- even you can’t deny that the tactics are different… messier, this time. “

“Be that as it may, if the pictures are not concrete enough evidence for you, then certainly the word of Molly Hooper ought to be.”

“How is that relevant?”

“She identified her assailant by name during the interrogation by M16. See for yourself.”

Sherlock turned at the sound of paper being rustled and took the sheet of paper that Mycroft held out to him. The text was arranged into the format of a transcript, with the name of the person in bold before their statement. He studied the document, his eyes lingering over her name for a second longer than necessary.

“And you’re taking her word for it? She wasn’t exactly in reliable state of mind when I got to her. There could be any number of reasons she named him. Trauma, coercion, I’m assuming she was given some sort of medication, which could have affected her answer as well.”

But the arch in Mycroft’s brow seemed to personify just how cheap Sherlock’s reasoning sounded to his own ears. There would be no other reason for Molly to give the name of a man who had been believed to be dead than had she honestly believed it to be him. And if the image of the man in the photographs where anything to go by, Sherlock had to admit that she would have had solid ground in which to believe it.

“How is she, by the way? Recovering well, I trust?”

The question caught him off guard, but even still, Sherlock was simply too well versed in keeping such reactions contained, if only by a fraction that was necessary.

“How should I know? Her personal well being is no concern of mine.”

“Oh I doubt that, little brother.”

“Yes, well, your opinion on the matter is even less of a concern. Besides, you’re the British government, if anyone would be aware of her condition, it would be you.”

Mycroft leaned back against his desk, his hands planted on either side of himself and his very stance sent a spike of irritation through Sherlock.

“You’re entirely missing the point. “

“Oh?”

“Yes. You see, as you so keenly observed, I would, and in fact do, know exactly where and how Molly Hooper is right now. However, Sherlock, your reaction to her life being jeopardize has given the impression that she means something to you,” Mycroft spoke the last four words without bothering to disguise his distaste for them.

“Which means, little brother, that regardless of whether it’s true, you’ve painted a target on her forehead.”

The truth in Mycroft’s words had a similar effect to a bucket of ice water being emptied into his abdomen. It may have registered in his expression or even in the sudden tension in his shoulders, but whatever the case, Mycroft knew.

“I warned you, Sherlock. I’ve warned you time and again, to not get involved. Now because of your stubbornness, Ms. Hooper will forever have to look over her shoulder. That’s hardly fair to her.”

Sherlock couldn’t keep himself from scoffing. “And since when have you cared about fairness?”

“Again, Sherlock, missing the point. Come now, even you aren’t obtuse enough not to realize what this will mean.”

“You seem far more concerned about Molly’s well-being than I appear to be. Perhaps it’s you who has gotten himself involved. Careful, Mycroft, people will talk.”

“Don’t be absurd. The only way in which I would be involved with her would be because of you. The only interest I have in Ms. Hooper is in regards to whatever…sentimental attachments you seem to have formed with her and the problems it’s undoubtedly going to pose for me in the future.”

“Molly is hardly something you need concern yourself with as these “sentimental” attachments as you’ve labeled them are purely out of appreciation for the services she was able to provide. Even you can’t deny having some level of respect for her help.”

“Naturally. Ms. Hooper performed her task proficiently.”

“Then, please do tell, what are you on about? You are the one who retrieved me to rescue her, after all.”

Mycroft crossed his arms then and the stance did nothing to lessen the air of superiority that clung to him like a second skin.

“I had no choice in the matter. However, she’s being watched, Sherlock. By all of London, if not England. Don’t you think it would be wise if you kept your distance?”

“You’re hardly the person I’d seek out for wisdom. Besides, if she is, in fact a target, then doesn’t it seem wise that I keep her close?”

“She has ample protection, I assure you.”

“Hmm.”

“For once in your life Sherlock, listen to me. Keep your distance from Molly Hooper.”

“Not doing so before has suited me perfectly well thus far. Why would I start now?”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Two men stood facing a window that overlooked the whole of London. Even four days later, the sky was still hazy from the wreckage where buildings had once stood and in their destruction, viewable from the onlookers vantage, all that was left was the blackened remains of five buildings.

One of the figures in question clucked his tongue gently, his hands fisted in the pockets of his immaculately tailored suit, while the other held his hands clasped together behind his back, his posture almost painfully astute. Behind them on a desk carved from cherry mahogany was a copy of The Guardian, its front page hidden by the way that the newspaper had been spread open. The reader who had left it had had little interest in the coverage of the events he had had a hand in the making of. After all, he already knew the details, what was the point in wasting time reading poorly deduced speculation and errant facts?

Turning from his companion’s side, he returned to his seat, each movement rigid and calculated, as if he were forcing each muscle into compliance and yet the graceful fluidity with which he moved spoke of little effort. Then again, the casual observer would simply assume it was due to the slightness of his body, the wraith-like figure demanding nothing less.

He turned his attention back to the only source of interest that the newspaper held for him, his eyes drinking in the words printed across the title, typed in bold lettering for accentuation.

HAT DETECTIVE RESCUES WOMAN FROM CERTAIN DEATH

“Always the hero.” The reader murmured as he scanned the article he had already read three times, highlighting the actions of the subject from the moment he had stepped out of the car upon his arrival to his departure via ambulance with the victim. The article also noted how Sherlock Holmes had been unavailable for further questioning.

Foot steps muffled by the lush white fluff of the carpet brought the other occupant of the room closer before leaning over the shoulder of the first to scan the headlines himself.

“Who’d have thought that little Molly Hooper could crawl so far under Sherlock’s skin.”

“And what makes you so sure this is new? You obviously missed something the first time around.”

“Last time I was around, he barely spared her a second glance. I’d suspect they’ve been shagging.”

“Don’t be crude, Jim.”

“Suppose I have to find a new nickname for him now.”


End file.
